Page 47 of The Trouble with Tweed

The sight of Claire’s mirth somehow shifted Michael from concern for his sister to a newfound appreciation for how ridiculous the entire situation truly was. He hadn’t been able to see it, not when he was at home, with his mother and sister alternately wailing and yelling at one another.

But here, in the Prestons’ breakfast room, Michael could truly comprehend how silly it was. His sister had accidentally dyed her hair purple. And not during summer, when they might have been able to hide such a mistake, but during the height of the Season, when she was expected to go out and attract suitors.

Michael shook his head, grinning, just as Sylvia began squeaking. She dropped the napkin, revealing a face grimaced with uncontrollable laughter instead of the tear-streaked visage he’d been expecting.

“Oh thank goodness,” Beatrice said, slumping into her chair. “I thought we’d have to act as if it wasn’t funny. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.”

Sylvia laughed. Claire finally released her face and joined in along with Michael.

Lily shook her head and blinked at all of them. “I don’t see how you can be laughing at her, the poor dear.”

“We’re laughing with her, which is markedly different,” Margaret said.

“How on earth did this happen?” Beatrice asked, leaning forward. “Was it that new McGill’s lavender shampoo? I bought a bottle, but I’m not finished with my old shampoo yet.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Lily said, a hand splayed against her chest. “I use that shampoo.”

“Of course not,” Sylvia said, dabbing moisture from her eyes with her napkin. Michael was relieved to see she looked much better than she had before they’d arrived. “I meant to dye it; I just didn’t intend for it to turn purple.”

“Why on earth did you want to dye your hair?” Lily tilted her head.

“Easy for you to say, when you have a perfectly normal shade of hair.” Sylvia’s chin jutted.

Michael sighed—this was the start of the same argument he’d heard perhaps a thousand times since his mother’s shrieking had yanked him out of sleep two mornings ago.

“Red hair is a perfectly normal shade,” Beatrice said, her forehead wrinkled. “And yours wasn’t even as red as your brother’s. His is red-blond; yours was more of an auburn-blonde.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my hair,” Sylvia said, absently toying with the end of the purple curl framing her face.

Michael frowned and self-consciously reached up to touch the hair at the base of his neck. He met Claire’s eyes; they contained a knowing twinkle. He wrinkled his nose playfully at her and dropped his hand.

“A pity the compliment came too late,” Beatrice murmured.

“Beatrice,” Lily chided.

“No, it’s fine.” Sylvia waved her hand.

“I understand the sentiment,” Margaret said. “I’ve often wished for the same shade of hair as my sisters.”

“Yours is such a lovely blonde, though,” Sylvia said.

“I’m beginning to think that we ladies sometimes cannot see ourselves very accurately,” Margaret replied.

“Well, I suppose I deserve these results. If I’m being honest, I dyed my hair out of vanity. I wanted more attention, you see, from the gentlemen.”

Michael wrinkled his nose at the idea. Down the table, Claire laughed. He caught her mirthful eyes and narrowed his in mock censure.

“I daresay you’ll succeed at the attention part,” Beatrice said, smiling.

“Indeed. How will they ignore me now?”

“You cannot intend to go into public until it fades.” Lily’s eyes were wide. She looked around for a moment in the resulting silence and added, “Forgive me. I only meant⁠—”

Sylvia smiled. “No, it’s fine. Truly it is. This has been a matter of much debate between my mother and me these past days.”

Michael caught Claire’s gaze again and widened his eyes dramatically to show that his sister’s words didn’t fully capture the scope of reality. She shook her head, smiling.

“Which of you believes you should continue on with purple hair?” Lily said, her head tilted.